Monday, March 29, 2004
Sir Peter Ustinov is dead at 82.
Yesterday, the battle between The Dutiful Me and The Other Me didn't go so well (at least not from the perspective of The Dutiful Me). At precisely 2 p.m. EST, The Dutiful Me cried "Uncle!" like a big wuss and The Other Me headed over to Piedmont Park with Spooky, for an afternoon of nothing so important as lying on the grass and staring at the sky. I think I'll save the story of our UFO sighting until tomorrow.
As my career as a writer has crept along from year to year (I won't say "progressed," because I don't want to mislead anyone), it has become increasingly difficult to stay focused on the act itself. Writing seems to become less and less important, at least so far as the people who buy and sell what I write are concerned. And there's a pronounced "trickle-down" effect. Their attitudes are contagious. I find myself sitting here with no fucking idea why I'm doing this. Sometimes, weeks of reflection are required to find the center again. And the center grows smaller and smaller and smaller. At this point, I figure it's shrunken to about the size of your average jelly bean. Perhaps I'm being unfair. It's not that my writing is unimportant to the aforementioned buyers and sellers, but, rather, that what I think I ought to be writing has become unimportant to them. Because, the truth is, I ought to be writing what Conventional Wisdom thinks will sell. And it's not as if I haven't tried. I just keep getting in my own way. The Dutiful Me has been trying to sell out for years, but The Other Me keeps queering the deals.
The Dutiful Me is very concerned about things like rent, health and life insurance, the obscene cost of living, car insurance, the bills that multiply like unneutered human beings, medical expenses, and on and on until I puke. The Other Me only occassionally bothers to even notice that such matters are the smallest, least significant, part of this plane of existence. The Other Me thinks this is art, this thing I do. The Other Me couldn't care less about expanding my audience, or being more accessible (oh this word, this single goddamn word), or whether or not my books are fronted at the local Borders. The Other Me doesn't even want to be here, not really, stuck in this cold room, playing make-believe with myself and trying to squeeze a living from the game. The Other Me knows what I gave up to be here. It delights in reminding The Dutiful Me that I was once a scientist and that I loved my work regardless of whether or not I was being paid. The Dutiful Me has taken to stuffing cotton in her ears and humming loudly. The Other Me couldn't give a damn what the reviewers at Publisher's Weekly think about me this week, and The Dutiful Me cringes at such a blasphemy.
And we go round and round and round and round.
Either me would kill the other, if I thought I could go it alone.
I received a very nice e-mail yesterday, from Lars Ahn Pedersen in Roskilde, Denmark. Lars is of the opinion that Low Red Moon is my best novel to date, and I quote:
Therefore I am a bit puzzled by the mixed reaction Low Red Moon, has received from the critics and the horror community, according to your website. I haven't read any of the reviews - living in Denmark it's hard enough to locate your novels, let alone the reviews of them - but I find Low Red Moon to be right up there with Poppy Z. Brite's Exquisite Corpse, Kathe Koja's Skin, Dan Simmons' Song Of Kali and Stephen King's early works when it comes to Great Scary Novels By Still-Breathing Authors.
My favourite scene was the Sadie Jasper vs. Narcissa Snow-showdown, where you had me absolutely convinced that this was the end of poor Sadie. This put me in a weird position: on one hand I almost didn't dare turn the page because I didn't want to read what happened to Sadie, on the other I read the sentences too fast because I wanted to know. Actually, if Low Red Moon should ever be made into a movie (and it should), this will be the scene I will look most forward to see - together with the diner scene which is all the more effective because you only give us the prelude to the massacre (I suppose this is the scene you had all in your head but decided not to write).
Loved the ending as well and although it didn't make me cry, it did make me feel sad. As for "the sad part" not going down too well with the so-called horror fans, I can only say I have always found it a plus when a horror novel has left me with some kind of feeling. Most, if not all, of the above mentioned Great Scary Novels have all an element of sadness in them and I can't for my life see why that should exclude them from the horror genre.
I don't usually quote fan mail in the blog. The Dutiful Me feels it's somehow gauche. The Dutiful Me worries a great deal about appearing gauche. The Other Me finds such fretful concern for what other people think pathetic, at best, without pausing to consider the inherent hypocrisy (she wallows in praise, yet continues in the belief that she is immune to public opinion). At any rate, thank you Lars.
I'll try to work on the Lovecraft essay today, if only because my deadline is Wednesday.
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